


Away in a Manger

by MDJensen



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, musketeer initiations, musketeer life, post-The Challenge, post-episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 18:11:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2517071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/pseuds/MDJensen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D'Artagnan's just earned his commission in the Musketeers, and he's happy. Really. But it's been a long, awful week and he'd just like to sleep for a while. Everyone else seems to have other ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Away in a Manger

**Author's Note:**

> I'm about three-fourths of the way through my sequel to _Winter, Late in Leaving_ , and Aramis is turning out so fucking young and angsty that I wanted to write something to remind myself of how he behaves in the show's present day. Plus, I really do love d'Artagnan. All this pre-show work has been causing me to basically ignore him, and that's not cool. So here's a tiny little thing.

The pack on his shoulder felt like a bad joke: all his earthly possessions, enough to be carried with ease. Inside was a change of clothes, his mother's bible, and a few odd trinkets. This, combined with the weapons at his hip, was the entirety of the things that remained in the d'Artagnan name.

The streets of Paris were moving as though nothing had changed. But the weight in d'Artagnan's chest was as heavy as his belonging's weren't, and the life and bustle all around him did nothing but irritate. He only wanted to reach the garrison. To find the quarters he'd been assigned, collapse on the bed, sleep for a year.

The garrison, which was his home now. That was the only bright spot in a week that had been the worst week since-- well, since just about a year ago. Since all this had begun.

The commission was no less than wonderful; it was, after all, the only reason he'd be able to stay in Paris rather than making his way back to Gascony and selling himself as a hired hand to a former neighbor. And more than that, surely, it was a calling. A chance to serve his country and fight alongside his brothers. And he was happy for it.

Somewhere, buried beneath everything else.

Serge caught him as he passed under the archway into the main yard of the garrison; d'Artagnan smiled weakly as the old cook thumped him on the back. He tried to be gracious as he accepted his key and listed dutifully to what quarters he'd been assigned. But his patience was scarce and he made his excuses as quickly as he could, then disappeared in the direction of his new home.

His quarters were at the back of the garrison, not far from the stables; d'Artagnan allowed himself to find a little comfort in that fact. He knew the musketeers who lived to his right and left, though not overly well. D'Artagnan sucked in a breath and urged himself to savor the moment that he slid the key in and unlocked the door--

Just inside, he froze.

Everything in the room-- the bed, the bureau, the small table and its chairs-- had been piled unceremoniously in the corner of the room. The floor was thick with hay.

His quarters had been made into a stable.

D'Artagnan let the pack slip slowly from his shoulder. He'd heard warnings, amongst the whoops and back-pats: warnings about the jokes that were orchestrated at the expense of newly-commissioned musketeers. But couldn't they have waited just one night?

He was just-- tired. He was just tired. In the past twenty-four hours he'd cycled so quickly and so violently through sorrow and guilt and loneliness, rage and despair and pride that honestly there was nothing else left inside him.

Except, apparently, tears-- because these came hotly to his eyes as he stared around at the disaster of a room that was meant to be his home. Meant to be his home now that he didn't have Constance. Now that he didn't have the farm.

D'Artagnan resisted-- barely-- the urge to sink down beside his pack and simply ignore the world for a while. Instead he began to idly kick the hay into small piles. He was making terrible work of it, stopping frequently as he was to dry his face, and had barely put a dent in the task when there was a knock at the door.

Aramis slipped inside before d'Artagnan could respond, hat in hand. “Ah!” He exclaimed, taking in the scene. “This is one of my favorites. It's fitting, given your background. Count yourself lucky; I had my boots pissed in by nearly every-- hey.”

D'Artagnan felt the moment that Aramis finally noticed his tears; he hung his head, miserable and ashamed. Then all at once he couldn't help but sniff a bit. The change in posture had caused his nose to begin running, and he pressed his knuckles to it, trying uselessly to stem the flow.

In an instant, Aramis was at his side. He slipped him a handkerchief; d'Artagnan accepted it, and blew his nose obediently. “I'm all right,” he swore, as Aramis hovered worriedly. “I'm being an idiot. That's all.”

“I make no such accusation.”

“I swear, I'm not upset about--” He gestured around his quarters. “Not really.”

“I'd make no judgment if you were-- well, not much of one.”

D'Artagnan sighed, toying with the soiled handkerchief before shoving it into his pocket. “This is going to be my home,” he said at last, hating how his voice creaked. “Before this, all I had was Constance's house. And before that, all I knew was the farm. Now it's gone, and she might as well be too.”

Tears were coming again; he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, knowing it was a useless effort. They weren't to be quieted. The well inside him felt endless.

Then Aramis' fingers found his shoulder. When he spoke, his voice soothed like a balm. “I've always tried to believe that our earthly homes extend no farther than our skins, while our real home waits above.”

D'Artagnan sniffed wetly. “You try to believe that-- do you manage?”

“Occasionally,” he admitted. He laughed, and after a moment d'Artagnan did as well.

“You hide away your sadness,” Aramis told him, sobering. “Love, happiness, anger, fear-- all these you show. But not sadness. I don't believe I have ever seen you weep before today.”

“It's all I've done this week. Ever since I found about about my father's farm.” He cleared his throat. “I've always been like that. Nothing for months, or years. But when I start, it's-- for days, just--” he laughed weakly, and used his hands to imitate the gushing of tears from his eyes. “And then, Constance--” His voice cracked, and he fell silent.

“You have ample cause to grieve,” Aramis mused. “And in the end, I think it's best that you do so.”

“I don't seem to have much of a choice,” d'Artagnan huffed, and Aramis smiled again and wrapped an arm around him. D'Artagnan hid his face against his friend's proffered shoulder and focused on his breathing, until at last it calmed.

“Come on,” Aramis coaxed. “Let's get your bed out, for now. The rest can wait until morning. I'm sure Athos and Porthos are at least three drinks in already.”

“We're going out?”

“You didn't think your commission would go uncelebrated, did you?”

“It's just-- I'm tired,” d'Artagnan replied. He hated to sound ungrateful, but the truth was the truth.

“Then you shall fall asleep on Porthos,” Aramis decided. “He's not half a bad pillow, when push comes to shove. And when the night is over, we'll carry you home.”

“Don't put me in the stables by mistake,” d'Artagnan muttered.

Aramis sniffed. “If anything, I'm offended that the other men saw it their place to initiate you. Surely they understood that honor belonged to the three of us?”

“Oh Lord. You'll get me next, then?”

Aramis' hand found d'Artagnan's shoulder once again; when their eyes met, his were full of good humor but also an endless well of understanding. “We'll wait a bit, I think.”

“How long?”

“An indeterminate amount of time.”

“So basically, when I least expect it, then?”

Aramis grinned. “Now you're getting it. But you have my word: it won't be tonight.” D'Artagnan let himself smile a bit in return, and Aramis rubbed his shoulder merrily. “All right. First, move your bed; second, drink yourself to sleep in Porthos' lap. Yes? Ready?”

“Ready,” d'Artagnan replied, and found he truly was.


End file.
